


XCOM: The Philosopher's Alloy

by Conchshellthegeek7



Category: Team Fortress 2, XCOM: Enemy Unknown (2012)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2015-06-05
Packaged: 2018-02-12 03:09:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2093421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Conchshellthegeek7/pseuds/Conchshellthegeek7
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The XCOM Project is humanity's first and last line of defense against the alien hordes. It is the only hope for Planet Earth. Only the best and brightest are chosen to enter into its folds -- the smartest, the strongest, the bravest, and in general, the best humanity has to offer. And then there's these guys. [Tags may be altered as necessary.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Red Stranger

_“Two possibilities exist: either we are alone in the Universe or we are not. Both are equally terrifying.” -Arthur C. Clarke_

_“If you’re ever planning on fighting aliens, this is the hair to have. Aliens are afraid of angular, painstakingly coiffed hair, so the mere sight of you will send them running back to Mars. Or, alternatively, we’re completely wrong and you’re going to die. Either way, though, you’re going to look stylin’.” -excerpt from official Mann Co. catalog_

Somewhere in Arizona, a seven-foot muscle sculpture charged up to the wall of a cheap Mexican restaurant and shoulder-checked it so hard it exploded. The sheer, unrelenting power of the blow sent fragments of brick and plaster flying across the room. Before any of the six uncannily human figures within had time to react to the explosion, shards of brick and plaster slammed into two of their backs, instantly severing their spines. They were left only enough time to scream a rattling scream before the life left their bodies and clouds of noxious green smoke poured out of their gaping, horrified mouths. The four remaining figures swung their bodies around with a flourish and pointed a series of glowing green plasma rifles at the intrusion. But then... ah, then they saw who had killed their fellows, and they ran for cover as fast as their spindly legs would carry them. Three of them chose to cower behind flimsy plastic tables, their unnaturally flexible spines bending and contorting to keep their heads down low enough for it to provide any kind of decent protection. The last one jumped over a bar in the far corner of the room, but stumbled as he landed. He slammed into the wall and shook the shelves above him, sending three heavy glass bottles slamming down onto his head. Another green plume of smoke shot up into the air behind the bar, heralded by another shrill death-cry.

The man laughed, long and hard. “If that’s all the fight you’ve got for me,” he shouted, “this operation is going to go even smoother than I thought!” With that, he ripped his military jacket off his chest, tossed its tattered remains aside, and threw his fists into a fighting stance. “Go on then, you scrawny sacks of shit! Give me your best shot!”

And to their credit, they did. Nine bolts of green plasma from three advanced rifles shot towards him. Six whizzed past his head, not even bothering to singe his angular, painstakingly coiffed hair, while the last three slammed into his marbled chest. All he felt was a faint, comfortable warmth. Cackling like a madman, he charged forward through the twin clouds of green smoke his entrance had left behind. The toxins burned his eyes and lungs, but he paid them no mind. He swung his fist at one of the aliens as he passed it, and its body went flying across the room, trailing green smoke behind it. He snatched a plasma rifle out of the hand of another and clubbed its owner over the head with it, sending it crumpling to the ground. The toxic smoke poured out of its mouth and into his, but still he paid it no mind. The rifle he’d used to kill it exploded as its operator died, sending a shard of unearthly metal stabbing into the palm of his hand, but again, he paid it no mind. He didn’t have time to feel pain, not when there were aliens to punch.

Before the sixth and final alien could get a chance to fire another volley at him, he tackled the scrawny thing to the ground, knocking its rifle from its hands. “Nice try, soldier!” he shouted, wrapping a beefy paw around the alien’s throat and squeezing. “Your squad’s dead, and you’ll be joining ‘em soon!”

The alien coughed and wheezed, trying desperately to force a workable amount of air into its lungs. Its already pale-skinned face went even paler, then began to turn a shade of blue to match its suit. As it struggled to get out another breath, it pried open its mouth and, using all its training as an infiltration specialist, forced a single question out from between its lips. “Wh-Who... aaare... youuu?”

The man threw back his head and laughed again, then triumphantly threw his fist into the air. “My name is Xavier Compton! And you are trespassing on my planet! Any last words, invader scum?”

The alien coughed again, a line of yellow blood flowing from the corner of its lips. And as its last breath rattled uneasily in its throat, it softly whispered to Xavier: “Commander to the Situation Room. Commander to the Situation Room.”

 

* * *

 

The Commander’s eyes slowly fluttered open. For a moment, he was confused and disoriented by his surroundings. He wasn’t in a Mexican restaurant anymore. He wasn’t pinning a Thin Man to the floor and watching it choke to death. He was... lying in his bunk. In HQ. He rolled onto his back and pressed his hands against his forehead. “Weird dream...” he muttered to himself. He laid there for a moment, staring blankly up at the ceiling, then sighed. Someone had something for him to do. They must have. He must’ve been woken up for a reason. He’d better see what was going on. With a great deal of effort, he swung his legs over to the side of the bed and hauled his scrawny body up into the air. He reached down to his nightstand, retrieved his glasses and slipped them on, then began the arduous process of stumbling across the tiny, dimly lit room. He preemptively lifted his hand to block the light, and sure enough, the door slid open automatically as he approached it. If he hadn’t thought to lift his hand, he would’ve surely been blinded by the unforgiving fluorescents. He stumbled blearily into his office, squinting against what little light there was.

He let out a weak, exhausted groan and slipped into his chair, dragging his fingers across the wall-height banner hanging behind his desk as he passed it. He stifled a loud yawn, nearly dislocating his jaw in the process, and placed his fingers on his keyboard. “Godspeed to those we’ve lost,” he muttered to himself, punctuating the remark with a soft shudder. Okay. What did he have to do today? There weren’t any outstanding alerts from yesterday he had to deal with. Dr. Vahlen didn’t have anything important to show him. Neither did Dr. Shen. If Bradford had any new contacts that needed his attention, he hadn’t told him yet. But... he’d been woken up. Something had happened to get him out of bed. There must be something important he had to do today...

As if on cue, the base’s AI begain to chirp cheerfully through the loudspeakers. “Commander to the Situation Room. Commander to the Situation Room.”

The Commander groaned and snapped his head down, resisting the urge to clamp his hands over his ears. “...Shit, right...” he muttered to himself, slowly hauling himself upright again. Something important was happening, and he had to get to the Situation Room. The Council probably wanted to talk to him about something or other. They probably had some assignment or another for his men. Another chance to save lives. Why else would they be calling? This is good, the Commander reminded himself. This is a good thing. This is a chance to do right by the Council.

The Commander nodded, stepping up to the door leaving his office and slowly punching in his combination. He had this under control. Every decision made in this base -- which alien incursions his field operatives would respond to and how, what new developments his science team had clearance to research, which of those developments his engineering team was allowed to build, where the damn bathrooms are... all of those decisions had to go through him, because he was the Commander of the XCOM Project. He was humanity’s last line of defense against the alien hordes. Humanity was depending on his efforts and his ability to make clear, rational decisions, but that was okay, because he was just that good.

“...Yeah,” he muttered under his breath as the door slid open, “you’re fooling no one, X...”

The Situation Room, unfortunately, was much brighter than the Commander would’ve preferred. It was basked in the blue light of the monitor that was as tall as the room itself -- so probably like twenty, thirty feet or something, he wasn’t sure -- and it was generally very bright. Much brighter than it was in the his office. They couldn’t shut off the monitor, of course. The monitor let them track global threats and panic levels. It was important. They couldn’t just shut it off. Still, it was really damn bright. And that was very unpleasant. “Can... Can we dim this monitor, or something?” he muttered, stepping up to the table in front of the monitor and slumping down onto it.

“Uh... yes, sir,” responded a familiar, but unusually concerned voice from somewhere off to his left. And sure enough, the lights rapidly dimmed to about half their normal intensity.

The Commander let out a relieved sigh and glanced over to his left. Sure enough, a square-faced man in his mid-thirties was standing beside him, glancing repeatedly between the monitor, his tablet and the man standing next to him. He nodded, then glanced back down at the table. “Thank you, Central Officer Bradford,” he muttered. He hesitated a moment, then looked back up. That was Bradford, right? He squinted, trying to force the swirling morass of images his eyes were sending him to align properly. Green sweater-vest with XCOM logo patch on the chest, weird dress slacks, headset mic stuck to the side of his head, white dress collar with a tie worn under his sweater... why would you do that? What’s the point in wearing a tie if you’re not going to actively show that you’re wearing a tie? And if you’re wearing a sweater, why would you wear a tie to begin with? What’s the point of --

The Commander suddenly realized that his mind was wandering. He vigorously shook his head, then realized what a terrible mistake he’d made. It felt like he’d just shook up his skull like a soda bottle. He let out a stifled groan and pressed his hand against his forehead, shuddering softly. “...Okay. Yeah. Thank you, Central Offic... oh, jeez,” he muttered, stumbling to one side slightly.

“You’re welcome, Commander,” Bradford responded, his eyes fixed on the map on the wall in front of him. If the Commander noticed that Bradford wasn’t looking at him, he didn’t say anything. He just moaned again, lowering his head slightly. Bradford hesitated a moment, then set his tablet gently down on the table. “Sir, have you been drinking?”

The Commander groaned and shook his head again, much more gently this time. “No, Officer Bradford... I have not been drinking,” he managed to get out. “I’m empha... emphatically not drunk. Not drunk. I’m in... perfectly fine shape to command this operation. I swear to God, I am. Pu... put the rep onscreen. Let’s get this over with.”

Bradford pursed his brow and placed his hand on his hip. “...With all due respect, Commander, I have a couple of things I’d like to say before we speak with the Council.”

The Commander hesitated a moment, then nodded. “...Permission to speak freely. But make it quick. Lives are on the line.”

Bradford sighed and slowly shook his head. “...No, they aren’t, Commander. The Council is calling us to give you the monthly status report about XCOM’s progress.”

The Commander blinked. “...They are? ...Oh, shit, it’s the the first of the month already...”

“Affirmative, Commander.” Bradford cleared his throat, glancing up at the monitor. “Incidentally... with all due respect, sir, I’m having a difficult time believing that you’re not drunk.”

The Commander shot Bradford a stern glare. “And why is that?”

“Well, for one thing, you’re wearing an open robe.”

The Commander said nothing. After a few long moments, he slowly tilted his head downwards. Sure enough, an XCOM-green robe was draped over his shoulders, unfastened in the front. It was the only thing on his body that could even be considered close to clothing. The Commander remained silent for a few long moments. Then he slowly inhaled, paused, and let out the heaviest sigh of his life. “You took that well, Bradford,” he muttered, slowly pulling the fabric across his body and fumbling with the sash.

“Thank you, Commander,” Bradford responded, finally glancing back in the Commander’s direction. He took a long, deep breath, swallowed, and then nodded. “Not to tell you your business, but would you like to come back and have this meeting once you’ve put on some pants?”

The Commander groaned, tugged on the sash and crossed his arms. “Fuck it,” he said simply. “I made this decision, and I have to live with the consequences. On screen.”

Bradford arched an eyebrow. “...Commander, if this is about Operation Dying Spark--”

The Commander’s hand tightened around his arm. “With all due respect, Bradford, I think I’d rather speak to the Council alone.”

Bradford hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Understood, Commander. I’ll be back once you’re done.” He turned and walked out of the room, leaving his tablet where he’d left it. The Commander hesitated a moment, then picked it up and began semi-randomly tapping it.

After a few moments of swiping, the wall-monitor went black. XCOM’s logo faded onto the screen after a moment -- a downward-pointing hexagon with an X across its center with the phrase “VIGILO CONFIDO” written in bold letters across the top. A few moments after that, the logo cut away, replaced by the darkened silhouette of the Council’s nameless representative, his interwoven hands resting gently on the table in front of him. “Hello, Commander,” the man said, his deep Southern drawl booming across the Situation Room, “and may I say, it’s nice to see that you’re taking this seriously.”

The Commander grunted, uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table. “Thank you, sir,” he groaned. “...Alright. Give it to me straight. How bad is it?”

“You've done an admirable job combating the alien threat over the course of the past month, Commander,” recited the representative. “However, we still feel that there is... room for improvement in your efforts.”

The Commander chortled and rolled his eyes. “You don’t fffffucking say.”

The representative hesitated a moment. “I... do not appreciate you taking that tone with me,” he eventually said.

“Yeah, well, I don’t appreciate aliens destroying major cities with plasma bombs,” the Commander snapped back. “With all due respect, _sir,_ I’d rather not have the Council twist the knife any more than is necessary. Could we just skip ahead to the part where you tell me that France has withdrawn?”

The representative let out a short, nervous chuckle. “Commander, have you been drinking?”

“I have not been drinking!” snapped the Commander. “Why would I even need to be drinking? It’s not like there’s a big hole in the middle of Lyon that wasn’t there before OH WAIT.”

“Ah. I understand,” the representative responded. “Of course, you have every right to be concerned about the well-being of the French people, following the... unfortunate... results of Operation Dying Spark.”

The Commander suddenly slammed his fist onto the table in front of him with a dull, plasticky thwack. “Unfortunate? UNFORTUNATE?! That’s the strongest word you have for me is unfortunate?! They died! They all DIED! I KILLED THEM! There’s a giant fucking crater in the middle of France! Don’t just sit there and tell my complete, abject failure is UNFORTUNATE!”

“Commander,” the representative countered, “what is getting angry at me going to solve?”

The room descended into an awkward silence after that. It was impossible to gauge the representative’s response, as his face was perpetually shrouded in shadow, but neither he nor the Commander said anything for a few long minutes. The only sound in the room was the whirring of computers and the Commander’s heavy, frantic breathing. But eventually, the representative found it convenient to break the silence. “Do you feel better now?”

“...Yeah,” the Commander moaned. “Yeah, I... I’m good. I just... I lost my temper there for a minute. I... I guess I’ve been taking all of this a little harder than I thought...”

“You’ll be happy to know, then,” the representative replied, “that France has elected not to withdraw from the Council.”

The Commander’s head shot up. “Wait, really?”

The representative nodded, the backlight light glinting off his hairless scalp as he moved. “Do not misunderstand me. The people of France are very scared right now. You will likely learn quite a bit about the state of the nation in the coming weeks. But France’s representatives in the Council have evidently decided that, in what could be their nation’s darkest hour, the protection of XCOM is needed more than ever. However, you should not expect this continued faith in the Project to be... indefinite.”

The Commander nodded, then slumped over the table slightly. “I... I understand, sir. I have until... next month, right?”

“That seems likely to me.”

“Okay. I... I’ll try my best to fix it. They’re definitely getting a satellite...” The Commander nodded, shivered, and looked down at his hands. “...y’know, as soon as the new facility’s built... which should take a... couple weeks... oh, God.” He shivered again, then sniffed loudly. “I’ve really fucked up here, haven’t I? The Project’s only been active a month...”

The representative hesitated a moment, then sighed. “For what it’s worth, Commander, the Council does not want to place any more pressure on you than is necessary. We recognize that you have an important duty to perform, but we also recognize that you are human, and therefore as fallible as any other citizen of Earth. Quite frankly, your best is all anyone has ever expected of you. We do not expect perfection. This Council is willing to recognize, after all, that you are not a magician.”

The Commander let out a dry chuckle, then nodded faintly. “Thank you, sir. I... That does actually make me feel bett--”

Suddenly, there was a bright flash of light, and a voice, strangled by a thick Scottish brogue, rang out over the Situation Room. “--rtis animataris! Ohhhh, hell...”

Before the Commander had time to turn around, something slammed into his back. He whirled around, arms out in front of him, to find that he was no longer alone in the Situation Room. There were nine men in there who hadn’t been there before. No two of them looked exactly the same. The only thing they all had in common was that all clad in bright red, and they were all staring at him with an expression that clearly encapsulated the phrase “ohhhh, shit.” “Wh-What’s the meaning of--” the Commander started.

But before he could finish that sentence, all hell broke loose. An animated skeleton, its bones bleached a horrific crimson, suddenly burst out of the floor in front of the Commander. It threw its arms out wide and clacked its teeth, and in the time it took it to do that, four more skeletons burst up on either side of it, springing up in a semicircle around the Commander.

The Commander, in what seemed at the time to be a perfectly logical response to the situation, shrieked like a girl. “AAAAAAUGH! OH JESUS CHRIIIST!” he screamed, scrambling up onto the table behind him. “BRADFOOORD! BRADFORD, WE HAVE A BREACH!” The skeletons, chattering wildly, jumped up onto the table after the Commander and began slashing at him, their sharpened, bony fingers streaking through the air so quickly that they left red lines of light behind them, lasting only a few moments before they faded away. The Commander barely managed to duck out of their way, only to tumble backwards off the table and slam into the ground with a loud thump. And, of course, the skeletons followed him. They formed a semicircle around him and began to viciously pummel him with their bony fists.

“Oi, get away!” the Scottish voice shouted from somewhere behind the table. “No! Bad zombies! Leave ‘im alone!” But the skeletons didn’t care. They just kept pummeling him into the ground -- stomping him, kicking him, and generally beating him into the ground. The Commander curled into a ball, trying desperately to protect himself from the bony assailants who were beating him into the ground. He screamed again, and again, and once more for good measure. He screamed until he was hoarse, and when there were no screams left, he wept. But after a few moments of that, just as suddenly as they had arrived, the five skeletons crumbled apart, leaving behind nothing but piles of crimson bones. And just like that, there was nothing left but the whirring of computers and the soft sound of the Commander’s weeping.

Eventually, the Scottish voice decided to speak up again. "Uh... ye okay over there, lad?" it asked.

"I can't feel anything below my neck," the Commander whimpered. "...Oh... wait, now I can feel it. Owwww..."

The representative decided to take that moment to pointedly clear his throat. “Gentlemen,” he said, "the nine of you have just broken into the most secure military facility on the face of the planet, called up a squadron of... what appeared to be undead warriors, and savagely attacked the Commander of the XCOM Project. For your sakes, I hope you have a good explanation for this.”

A second voice piped up in response, sounding more American than anything the Commander had heard in a while: “A wizard did it!”


	2. Banished Jester

The representative didn’t know how to respond to this at first. That was rare for him. He decided to take full advantage of the time he needed to gather his thoughts, and studied the nine men in front of him. In front, there was a black man -- the only black man in the group, he noted -- wearing a dark eye patch and a vest with what appeared to be pill grenades strapped to it. The man was holding a weathered book in his hands, which... apparently served as some kind of spell book. Or perhaps not. He could discern the truth of that later.

Aside from the man with the book, there was the man who’d forced himself to the front row. He was clad in an unseemly mishmash of ill-fitting, Vietnam-era military surplus, all of it bright red. Behind him stood a short, stocky man wearing a hard hat, overalls over a red tee and goggles; a tall, lanky man with aviator shades and a vest with bullets in the front pocket; and a similarly thin, but shorter man with bandaged hands and an almost comically oversized headset over his left ear.

And behind those three, there were yet more. An overweight yet muscular man with a loaded bandolier across his chest was staring up at the screen... right at him... with a generally irritated look on his face. A middle-aged man in a lab coat and red rubber gloves, wearing what looked like an unregistered nuclear accelerator on his back, stood next to him. Off to their right, glancing eagerly around the room, was an ambiguously gendered figure in a bright red rubber suit and black gas mask. And in the very back, a thin man in a pinstripe suit and ski mask that stood, arms crossed, staring at his surroundings with a calm, analytical eye...

...much like the representative was doing right now. He blinked -- not that the men could tell -- and tilted his head down slightly. “...I see,” he said, placing his hands on the table in front of him. “A wizard did it. I suppose that would explain a few things.”

“Yes!” the patchwork soldier responded, as something resembling a smile clawed its way onto his face. “His name is Merasmus! We used to be roommates! I broke him ou--”

At that point, the man in the hard hat suddenly placed his hand on the soldier’s shoulder and stepped forward. “Whoa, whoa! Soldier, what’d we say?” he chuckled, pulling his associate back. “Uh, I think what my friend was tryin’ a’ say,” he said through a thick Southern accent, “is that we were tryin’ ‘a _apprehend_ a dangerous wizard who escaped from jail, an’ in the conflict, he... sent us here, apparently. Where is here, by the way?”

The man in the pinstripe suit glanced around briefly, still analyzing his surroundings. “The most secure military facility on the planet,” he responded through a serviceably understandable French accent. “Of course, it can’t be that secure if you can simply teleport in.”

“I am willing to grant you that we... did not anticipate this eventuality,” the representative responded. “When we constructed this facility, we did so under the assumption that magic did not exist.”

The man in uniform -- Soldier, apparently -- let out a loud burst of laughter and threw back his head. “Hah! Sure, because that worked so well for the Nazis!”

The one-eyed man slammed his book shut and rolled his eye. “Oh, this oughta be good,” he groaned through a nigh-incomprehensible Scottish brogue. “Wha’ do the Nazis have to do with this, Soldier?”

“Didn’t you pay any attention to the newsreels, maggot?” Soldier snapped. “A squadron of time-traveling wizards was hired by the US government to go behind enemy lines and stop the Nazis before they could finish rampaging across Europe! The wizards stormed Hitler’s bunker and forced him to kill himself with mind control! That is a matter of public record!”

“That sounds remarkably like a film pitch,” the representative pointed out.

The man with bandaged hands chuckled, pulled a baseball bat out of a sheath slung over his back and balanced it on his shoulder. “Oh, ya’ve seen Sorcerer Squad II: Wizards vs. The SS?” he asked, his voice afflicted with a thick Bostonian accent.

“...Lucky guess,” was the representative’s response.

It’s at that point that there came a strained groan from behind the plastic table, and a wavering hand slowly reached out from behind it. “I’m... I’m still here, guys...” groaned the Commander as he pulled his way up above the table.

The man in the lab coat’s eyebrows shot upwards. “Oh, you’re still alive?” he said with a much more distinct German accent than the Commander was used to. “Okay zhen. I heard you stop crying, and I assumed you’d bled out. As it happens, I’m a doctor.”

“No no no, you stay away from me,” the Commander snapped. “You just jumped into this base and you attacked me. I’m not about to let you touch me, Herr Doktor.” He then doubled down over the table, his tattered robe flapping with the sudden motion. “Aaaah... Jesus Christ. Having said that, I am in a lot of goddamn pain right now.”

“Vell, alright, zhen,” the doctor said. He reached behind him and pulled out what looked like a repurposed fire hose linked to the proton pack he was wearing. “I mean, I vas going to heal you, but if you don’t vant me to touch you, zhat’s fine. You’ll just have to die a slow painful death of... I don’t know. Internal bleeding, probably. If you’re comfortable vis zhat, I applaud you.”

“And that’s all you were going to do?” the Commander asked.

“Vell I, ah, hm.” The doctor hesitated a moment, lowering his hose and rubbing his chin. “...Okay, since you brought it up, I do still have some spare hippopotamus liver on me, and it’s just going to rot if I don’t use it... It vouldn’t be a very invasive procedure at all, I promise.”

“You’re insane. Don’t fucking touch me,” the Commander snarled.

“Are you alright, Commander?” the representative asked.

“Since you asked, no sir. I don’t think so,” the Commander shot back.

The fat man in the back let out a soft chuckle. “You are Commander?” he asked incredulously, through a Russian accent that was just as thick as any of his peers’. “Heavy does not believe that. Commander must be strong and mighty, or scary enough to command respect of troops. Heavy could snap you like twig.”

The Commander hesitated for a few moments, then scoffed and jabbed an impertinent finger in “Heavy’s” direction. “You try it, fatass, and I’ll...” He trailed off after a few moments, then let out a pained sigh. “...Well, realistically, I’ll probably fucking die of internal bleeding. Speaking of which, I think I’m fucking dying of internal bleeding. Representative, I need to head back to my office. Keep an eye on these fat red dicks while I call for an EMT and a security team.”

“Yes, Commander,” the representative said, choosing not to bring up the fact that he wasn’t in the same room as the intruders and therefore had no tangible power to stop them if they tried to leave.

“Aw... c’mon, there ain’t no need for that kinda talk,” the man in the hard hat said, crossing his arms and chuckling nervously. “Look, we’ve got a doctor right ‘ere.” He gestured towards his friend in the lab coat to illustrate his point. “Medic might be a little... eager, but he’s the best damn doctor in the business. I dunno where we’d be without ‘im. An’ if internal bleeding’s the worst of your problems, it’s nothin’ a quick jolt from a MediGun™ can’t fix.”

The Commander groaned, then shook his head. “Nice try. I’m not letting Dr. Moreau over there touch me.”

“Who said anythin’ about touchin’ you?” the man replied, a grin coming to his face.

“He did,” the Commander answered, pointing to the alleged doctor. “When he said he needed to stitch some hippopotamus liver inside my body or else it’d go stale.”

“Zhat’s not vhat I said!” the Medic blurted out. “...I mean, to be fair, it is vhat I meant, but--”

“Exactly.” The Commander grunted and turned towards the exit. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I really don’t even know how I’m still standing. I need to call an EMT before I keel over.”

The suit-clad man scoffed and rolled his eyes. “Well, that was worth a shot. If you’d be so kind, doctor?”

“Jawohl,” the Medic responded, pointing his hose at the Commander. He pushed a lever forward on it, and a stream of red gas began to spill through the air towards the wounded man.

“Hey hey, what’d I say? What did I fucking say?!” the Commander spat, jabbing a bony finger in the alleged Medic’s direction. “I am the Commander of the XCOM Project, and YOU WILL RESPECT MY AUTHORI--” And it was at that point the stream reached him. A pool of red gas swirled around the Commander’s body, flowing into his lungs, his eyes, every exposed pore. Tiny clouds of it occasionally coalesced into tiny red crosses before they dispersed again, sinking into his skin at particularly bruised or broken points. The Commander... well, to put it bluntly, he’d never felt anything like this before. The concept appeared to be similar to a standard Medkit -- bodily repair in a convenient aerosol form, apply directly to the wound -- but even XCOM’s most advanced, state of the art Medkit felt nothing like this. It wasn’t just that the pain was being blocked out, he could FEEL himself healing. He could feel his bones knitting themselves back together, his cuts sealing themselves shut... hell, even his whiskey headache was receding, and quickly. And it wasn’t just his body, either. It felt like his senses were being heightened. He could smell the dull, recycled air of the base, hear the distant clacks of keyboards in Mission Control, see every mote of dust floating through the blue-tinted air...

Medic chuckled, pulling the lever back to its starting position. “Vell, somebody’s having fun,” he chuckled. “Zhis isn’t your first time, is it, Herr Kommandant?”

As the gas began to fade, sinking into the Commander’s body, he shook his head and stared down at the Medic. “...H-How did you know, doctor?” he asked.

“Your arms are forming a T,” the Medic observed. The Commander blinked, cleared his throat and quickly lowered the offending limbs. “It’s no problem. Nozhing to be ashamed of. It happens to every man at some time in zheir life. Alzhough, for a man your age, I vould’ve expected it a bit sooner...”

The Commander blinked. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked.

“Nozhing, nozhing,” Medic responded through a bemused chuckle. “Just glad to be your first.”

“Doctor, stop teasing baby man,” Heavy said gruffly.

“If you insist,” the Medic shot back. “But so ve’re clear, you’re absolutely sure about zhe hippopotamus liver?”

“With all due respect, Doctor,” the Commander said, “you should leave the physiology-mixing to the men in the Genetics Lab.”

The Medic’s eyebrows shot up. “Oooh... you have a Genetics Lab? Interesting. Might I see it?”

“No.” The Commander cleared his throat and adjusted a tie that he clearly wasn’t wearing. “Or... maybe later, but probably not. There are a few things we need to take care of first. I’ll start with the obvious question. Who the...” He hesitated, then cleared his throat and started again. “Who are you people?”

“Oh yeah, I guess that would be the obvious question,” the man in the hard hat chuckled. “I’m the RED Engineer. Most folks jus’ call me Engie, though. An’ in case you were wonderin’--” He jabbed a gloved thumb behind him, towards the man in the rubber suit behind him. “--that’s the Pyro back there. He doesn’t talk much.”

“Hrrlrrrw!” the Pyro announced cheerily, waggling its fingers in the Commander’s direction.

“I am the Soldier!” the man in surplus shouted. Well, of course he was. What else would he be?

“I’m the Demoman,” responded the one-eyed man, his voice slurring a bit.

The Bostonian kid twirled his bat in the air and grinned. “‘Sup? Scout ‘ere.”

The thin man with the sunglasses smiled faintly and tipped his hat in the Commander’s direction. “Oi’m the Snoiper,” he announced through a thick yet endearing Australian accent.

“I am zhe Medic,” the doctor said, “but I believe I told you zhat.”

“I am Heavy Weapons Guy,” the fat man announced.

Finally, the man in the suit scratched at the side of his head and nodded at the Commander. “And I am the Spy. And together, our roving band of misfits forms the RED Team.”

The Commander hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Follow-up question: do any of you actually have names?”

“That’s classified information, maggot!” the Soldier snapped.

“...Actually,” Engineer said, adjusting his hard hat, “he ain’t far off. We ain’t allowed t’ jus’ share our names t’ any ol’ body. Company policy. Our codenames’ll work just fine.”

“I... okay, fine, we’ll come back to that,” the Commander muttered. “Second question: Where did you come from?”

“New Mexico,” the Sniper responded. “Specifically, the Greater Badlands region.”

“Uh... speaking as something of a geography expert,” the Commander responded, “never heard of it.”

“Really?” Engineer responded, tilting his head. “...Well, maybe you’ll ‘ave heard a’ Teufort? That’s a prominent settlement in the region...”

“I’m afraid not,” the Commander sighed. “I’ll... have someone look that up later. Anyway, third question: This is a highly classified underground military base. No one on Earth who is not supposed to know where this base is, knows where it is. How did you get here?”

“I told you, a wizard did it!” Soldier shouted.

“Engineer,” the Commander said, crossing his arms, “you seem to be the voice of reason among your little party. Why don’t you answer the question?”

“He’s right about that, Commander,” Engineer responded. “We were went here as the result of a violent altercation with a wizard named Merasmus the Magician. As I said, we were tryin’ a’ _apprehend him..._ ” He shot Soldier a dirty look. “...and in the ensuing violence, he created some kinda’ portal storm to cover his escape, and sent us here.”

The Commander let out a soft sigh. “Gentlemen, you don’t have to lie to me.”

“I’m... not lyin’, Commander. That’s what happened.”

The Commander sighed. “Alright, then. We’ll play it your way.” He uncrossed his arms and placed his hands on the table in front of him, leaning down against it. “Gentlemen, I would not have been appointed leader of this project if I was stupid. I’m fully aware of the fact that magic does not exist.”

“Oi, ye were jus’ attacked by skeletons!” the Demoman pointed out.

“Fair point,” the Commander said, nodding. “However, I can still think of a slightly more... plausible explanation than magic.”

“Do I still need to be here for this, Commander?” the representative cut in.

“Huh?” the Commander glanced behind him and stared up at the representative above him. “Oh, no sir. I have this under control. Just send the monthly report to my desk, and I’ll go over it once this is resolved.”

“Understood, Commander. Remember, we will be watching.” XCOM’s logo flashed up on the screen again, and the image was soon replaced with the standard blue-tinted map of the globe. America was yellow, Russia was yellow, Germany was yellow, and France was bright red... but hey, at least everywhere else was blue.

“Hey, what’s that for?” Sniper asked, pointing up at the monitor.

“Tracking global panic levels,” the Commander responded. “But that’s not important right now. What’s important right now is you. Tell you what, gentlemen -- why don’t you all wait here for a few minutes while I get dressed, and then we’ll all take a little trip down to the Genetics Lab?”

“Ooh, ve do get to see it? Excellent!” The Medic cheerfully clapped his hands and began rubbing them against one another. “You all don’t mind, do you?”

The group began muttering quickly amongst themselves, apparently discussing the merits and demerits of the Commander’s offer. “Well, you all figure that out, folks,” the Commander said, smiling warmly at them. “I’m going to put on some pants. Don’t go anywhere.” He walked backwards away from them, towards the door leading to his office, and began punching in the combination without a word.

As the door slipped shut again, the smile suddenly vanished from his face. Without wasting a moment, he stepped over to his desk, picked up an abandoned headset and slipped it over his ear. He pinched the base of the microphone, and after a few moments of static, began to speak. “Central, this is the Commander speaking. Yes... Yes, it went well. ...I’m feeling better now, actually. Thank you for asking. But that’s not the point. I am going to give you a set of instructions, and I need you to follow them exactly. Do them as quickly as you can, as efficiently as you can, and do not use the intercom while you do them. ...Okay. Now, Bradford, I don’t want you to panic... but XCOM has been infiltrated.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What wacky misadventures will our friends in red get up to next? What devious schemes does the Commander have up his sleeve? What new horrors await them in the mysterious XCOM Genetics Lab? And what of France? Stay tuned to find out! Same RED time, same RED channel!


	3. Brutal Justice

 

> Kafkaesquire: Hey. You around?
> 
> DiscountProbing: yeah. sup?
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Oh, thank God. Hey, Probe.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: I hope you don’t mind, I just reeeeally need a break from my family right now.
> 
> DiscountProbing: that’s why im here man
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Good... good...
> 
> Kafkaesquire: >Hugs
> 
> DiscountProbing: >returned
> 
> DiscountProbing: wanna boot up tfi or something?
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Nah, not really in the mood right now. I’d rather just talk, honestly.
> 
> DiscountProbing: k. start talking.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Well... my uncle came over today.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: I told you about my cousin Rudy, right?
> 
> DiscountProbing: the child support bloke?
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Yeah, him.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Well, this guy, he’s Rudy’s father. He’s got Rudy wrapped around his little finger, and he’s even dumber than Rudy.
> 
> DiscountProbing: ouch :(
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Yeah.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: He came over today to see if he could borrow some money from my dad.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Y’know, because we have so much.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: But he’s got the money now and he’s been here all morniiiing D:
> 
> Kafkaesquire: He’s just sitting in the living room eating our food, and he and Rudy won’t suht up about their stupid conspiracy theories.
> 
> DiscountProbing: oh that’s where rudy got it?
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Yeah.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: And... well, you know how dumb they can get when it’s just Rudy, right?
> 
> DiscountProbing: nazi ufos ooooooo look out 2spoopy
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Yeah, like that.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Well, somehow, when they have two brains to rub together, they get even dumber.
> 
> DiscountProbing: like what?
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Well, apparently America was invaded by aliens back in the 1960s.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: But only America. Nowhere else.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: And these aliesn could turn invisible and shapeshift and take the appearance of anyone they wanted.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: And they spread some kind of waterborne pathogen, started aggressively terraforming, killed J. Edgar Hoover, parked their mothership right over the planet and started shelling the world from orbit.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: And the only reason you haven’t heard about any of this is that a top-secret military organization fought off the invasion and destroyed all the records of it.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: And then they waited a few years and used the aliens’ stolen technology to... I dunno, kick off project MK Ultra or something.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: It doesn’t make sense, even by THEIR lofty standards. This is the crap I have to put up with.
> 
> DiscountProbing: your family sux m8
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Yeah...
> 
> Kafkaesquire: >Sighs
> 
> Kafkaesquire: I need to take my mind off this. What’ve you been up to lately?
> 
> DiscountProbing: not much
> 
> DiscountProbing: just waiting for something exciting to happen lol
> 
> Kafkaesquire: I see.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: How’s your job?
> 
> Kafkaesquire: ...Hello?
> 
> DiscountProbing: yeah still here
> 
> DiscountProbing: there was this big project we had to do last week with some french transportation company
> 
> DiscountProbing: and it went tits-up reaaaaal fast
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Oh, boy.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: People got fired?
> 
> DiscountProbing: hell yes people got fired
> 
> DiscountProbing: i mean usually i try to give my boss the benefit of the doubt
> 
> DiscountProbing: hes doing the best he can with the resources he has and all that
> 
> DiscountProbing: but dude this operation was a DISASTER
> 
> DiscountProbing: basically my entire team got fired
> 
> DiscountProbing: and i almost went with em
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Oh, damn, I’m sorry to hear that...
> 
> DiscountProbing: you dont need to be sorry
> 
> DiscountProbing: i didnt lose my job lol
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Yeah, good point.
> 
> DiscountProbing: i dont really wanna talk about it tho
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Well, you don’t have to.
> 
> Kafkaesquire: ...Speaking of your job, though, there was something I’ve been meaning to ask you...
> 
> DiscountProbing: crap my boss wants me to do sumthing i g2g
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Huh?
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Isn’t it like... midnight where you live?  
> DiscountProbing: a little after but yeah
> 
> Kafkaesquire: ...
> 
> Kafkaesquire: Your job sucks, mate.
> 
> DiscountProbing: oh but dont i have fun?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ask anyone who’s spent even a minute in the XCOM Genetics Lab to describe it in one word, and they will invariably settle on “yellow.” Important scientific equipment is scattered all around the room, including a custom MRI machine ringed with inexplicable yellow lights, a few open canisters of golden, crystalline Meld, and huge, ten-foot canisters of fluid which were designed to fit human beings, all of it somewhere between bright, golden yellow and sickly greenish-yellow. It’s very yellow. There aren’t an abundance of places to hide in the lab, but there were a few pipes to hide behind, and there were always the large, comfortable-looking armchairs that had been hastily set up in front of the containment tanks. They didn’t exactly look like they belonged in the Genetics Lab, especially due to their clashing eggshell-blue color, but then, they weren’t usually there.

 

The door to the Lab slid open with a hiss, and a cloud of footsteps began to make their way down the metal corridor. They were led by the Commander, who, true to his word, had put on some pants. He’d also put on an XCOM-green military jacket with a sash of medals pinned across his chest, with a tie and everything. Coupled with the tablet tucked under his arm and the headpiece over his ear, it was all a very professional look. Let it not be said that the Commander didn’t dress as though he commanded the respect of his men. Assuming he wasn’t wandering around drunk and half-naked. “No no no, it makes perfect sense,” he was saying, trying and failing to suppress his laughter. “I mean, you’re already an egomaniacal, nigh-immortal gravel magnate, you want to secure your father’s legacy, and instead of doing so by legal action, you’ve already decided to build an army of robots to take what is rightfully yours by force. So... why wouldn’t you power said robots by having them burn giant piles of money in internal furnaces? I mean, that’s just the logical progression.”

 

“See, zhat’s vhat I’ve been trying to tell zhem!” chortled the Medic, waving his gloved hand through the air to punctuate his remark. “You know, I’m glad ve see eye to eye on zhis, Commander. I can see vhy you vere put in charge of zhis little Project of yours -- you obviously have a keen eye for strategy.”

 

“Ahhhh... thank you, Doctor,” the Commander chuckled. “Anyway, welcome to the Genetics Lab. Have a seat. We’ve set up some chairs over there for you.”

 

“Ah, zhat vas kind of you.” One by one, the men walked down the metal hallway towards the chairs. The Scout was the first to reach them. He hopped over the one in the middle and landed in the one behind it, immediately settling into it. The Engineer reached them next, and settled into the back-left. Pyro sat beside him, but the Commander wasn’t too surprised by that -- the Pyro hadn’t strayed far from Engineer’s side throughout most of the walk down here. They all filed in pretty quickly after that. Medic sat in the front row, between Soldier and Heavy, and Demoman and Sniper settled down to either side of Scout. Spy moved towards the pack-right seat... but after a few moments, it became evident that he wasn’t going to sit down.

 

“...Well, then.” The Commander clasped his hand over the top of his tablet. “Um... as I said, welcome to the XCOM Genetics Lab. You wanted to see it, here it is. In all its... yellow... glory. Oh, and by the way--” He jabbed a thumb to his right, indicating another large, circular metal door. “--we’ve got a Cybernetics Lab right next door, in case any of you were interested. So basically, this whole floor is just a string of rooms where we spit in the face of God. Or something like that, anyway. I’m not too religious myself.”

 

The Medic chuckled, adjusting himself in his seat. “I zhink ve’re going to get along just fine, Commander,” he chuckled.

 

“Thank you again, Doctor,” the Commander responded, smiling sheepishly, “but really, I just signed off on these facilities. Dr. Vahlen was the one who conceived of this facility, and the lab next door was thought up by our Head of Engineering, Dr. Shen. They’ll be dropping by a little later, and I’m sure you’ll have an excellent opportunity to get to know them. But until then, I’d be happy to explain how this facility works. ...Once you’re all comfortable, I mean. Spy, aren’t you going to sit down?”

 

The Spy shook his head and adjusted his baklava. Up to that point, the Commander hadn’t even realized he was wearing one -- it fit him so tautly that it had seemed to be a natural part of his skin. “I’d rather stand, Commander, if it’s all the same to you.” He then reached into his suit pocket and plucked out a white metal case. “Do you mind if I smoke? I seem to have left my cigarette in New Mexico.”

 

“Ah-ha... Actually, I do mind. This is highly sensitive equipment and we use it a lot,” the Commander replied. As he spoke, he held his tablet out in front of him and began to tap a few times on the screen. “And also, I’d... really prefer if you sat down. I’d feel more comfortable talking to you people if you had the higher ground. Please... sit. I insist.”

 

Spy hesitated, then slowly placed his case back into his pocket and lowered his hands. “...Hm. Is there any particular reason that you insist, Commander?”

 

“Aside from what I literally just said?” The Commander placed one arm behind his back, glanced down at his tablet and let out a nervous chuckle. “No, not really. I just like my honored guests to be comfortable, is all.”

 

“Honored guests?” the Spy repeated. “We appeared as if from nowhere and attacked you. How does that make us your honored guests?”

 

The Commander glanced down at the assembled mercenaries for a moment, pursed his lips and then sighed. “Fair point, Spy. When you put it that way, I guess this whole thing is kind of silly.” Without another word, he reached down and tapped the screen of his tablet. Before anyone had any time to react, silver rings of metal shot up out of the arms of all the chairs except the empty one, locking around the arms of the seated mercenaries. The Commander’s eyes popped open, his spine curled over and his lungs released a long, wheezing laugh without even bothering to check with his brain first. “...Oh my God. I can’t believe that worked.”

 

“Oh, COME ON!” shouted the Scout, lashing violently against his bonds. “Handcuff armchairs? Are you freakin’ Australiumfinger?”

 

“If he is,” Spy replied, “he certainly picked the wrong man to not properly secure.” Without another word, he reached down towards an invisible holster on his belt and pulled out a decidedly not-invisible gun. A handcannon, specifically -- gleaming silver with an engraving of a beautiful woman on the barrel and a bright red ebony handle... a very beautiful gun, all things considered. The Commander had no time to appreciate the exquisite craftsmanship that went into the gun, considering that the Spy had pulled it quite literally from nowhere and was currently pointing it right between his eyes.

 

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The Commander scrambled backwards, somehow refusing to let go of his tablet. He threw his free hand into the air, pinched his earpiece and screamed into it. “Target’s armed! Move in!”

 

It all proceeded very quickly from that point on. The door between the Cybernetics and Genetics Labs swung open, and four people charged in. Three men in eggshell blue body armor, with assault rifles clenched a little too tightly in their hands, charged in behind a woman in bright red, carrying a shotgun. The Spy, in a single, fluid motion, whirled around and pointed his revolver at the woman in red. He fired a shot at her muscular, exposed arm, and she quickly stumbled back. She punctuated the attack with a wild cry of “Take ‘im out!” and all four agents trained their weapons on the Spy. They all squeezed the triggers as one, and a hail of bullets went flying towards the Spy. Before he even had time to scream, his head snapped backwards, and his spine followed shortly after. His legs were ripped off the ground by the sheer force of the bullets, and his corpse went tumbling backwards, head-over-heels, before slamming into the ground with a dull, unceremonious thump.

 

Needless to say, the eight surviving mercenaries burst out in raucous, gut-wrenching laughter. “Ohhhhh! Good death!” the Heavy roared, rocking his chair with his laughter. “Spy does not disappoint!”

 

The Commander turned and pointedly arched his eyebrow at the mercenaries. “I’m... glad you found that funny, gentlemen,” he said simply. “Everybody okay?”

 

“We’re fine, Commander,” responded one of the soldiers in blue, lowering his weapon. “Nobody got hit. He... He was aiming at Emma. I-I mean... Sergeant Gallagher, sir.”

 

“No... no no no, that’s alright,” the Commander said softly, lifting his hand. “You can... I’m lifting the name regulations as of now. They were... not my best idea. If she wants you to call her Emma, you can call her Emma.”

 

Emma crossed her arms in a way that simultaneously showed off her taut, toned biceps and caused the the silver implants imbedded in her arms to glint softly in the dim yellow light of the lab. “Actually... since yer liftin’ the regulations, Commander,” she said through a thick, smarmy Irish accent, “how about ya start callin’ me the Lady in Red?”

 

The Commander glanced up at the ceiling for a moment, then smiled and tipped an imaginary hat at Gallagher. “Sounds good to me. I’ll make a note of it. And as for the rest of you, you heard the Lady.”

 

The Lady in Red smirked, slung her shoulder over her back and ran a hand along the base of her angular, painstakingly coiffed hair. “Thank ya, Mr. Compton.”

 

The Commander’s smile faded quickly. “Emma... I realize I just lifted the name regulations, but all the same, I... I’d really prefer... p-please don’t call me that.”

 

“Aye-aye, Commander,” Gallagher responded, still smirking at him.

 

Suddenly, the conversation was interrupted by the pneumatic hiss of a large metal blast door sliding open. The Commander sighed and rolled his eyes again. “Y-Yes, Doctors, the room is clear,” he scoffed, turning swiftly around. “Thank you for a... asking.” In the time it took the words to leave his lips, the door had slid shut again, and it had become abundantly clear that no one new had entered the room. The Commander hesitated a moment, then pinched his earpiece. “Dr. Vahlen. Dr. Shen. Did one of you try to come in just now? ...No, I didn’t think you would. It’s just that the door opened. ...On its own. No one was next to it. Unless someone was on the other side, which is why I asked. ...Okay. I’ll have a maintenance crew look at it when we’re done here. But in the meantime, the Lab is free of hostiles. You two are free to enter. ...Good. See you soon.” The Commander then clapped his hands loudly, wiped what little smile there was off his face. “OKAY, CAN THE LAUGHTER!”

 

The laughter was not canned. The Soldier, in particular, doubled over in strained, wheezing laughter. “Hah! You call that Commanding? I’ve met GHOSTS that gave better orders than that!”

 

The Commander jabbed an indignant finger in the Soldier’s direction. “Well, too bad, Soldier, because those ghosts are not here right now. I am the Commander of the XCOM Project, and as long as you are in this base, I expect you all to obey me.”

 

“Now take off yer pants,” Gallagher interjected, her remark punctuated by a faint group of chuckles from the men behind her.

 

“Thank you, Sergeant Gallagher. That’s enough.” the Commander snapped. “Rein it in, mercenaries. We need to have a little talk.”

 

“Yeah yeah, sure, fine. Not like we’re goin’ anywhere, right?” the Engineer chuckled. “What was it ya wanted t’ talk about, Commander?”

 

“Oh, so many things...” The Commander clasped his hand onto the top of his tablet and stared down at the assembled mercenaries. “There were quite a few interesting things in that little story you told me on our way down here, gentlemen. However, there were a few things you said that didn’t quite... stand up to scrutiny.”

 

“Oh, uh... really?” The Engineer’s (admittedly nervous) smile faded. “Like what?”

 

“Well... I had my Tactical team scour the planet on the way down here. We searched everything -- historical records, census data, outside satellite imaging, not to mention our own fully comprehensive military-grade tactical spy satellite array, and--”

 

“Fully comprehensive?” Gallagher interjected.

 

“Okay, mostly comprehensive. The point is,” the Commander continued, “there is no Greater Badlands region in New Mexico.”

 

The room descended into saturated silence once more. Eventually, the Engineer managed to get out a low, shaky “...what?”

 

“You heard me,” the Commander sneered, bobbing his head up and down with the rhythm of his speech. “There is no region in New Mexico called the Greater Badlands Region.”

 

“...Wh... Wha?” The Engineer slumped back in his seat. “...But... That’s not possible. We... We live there. We work there. How could it not exist? D-Did you... ah, don’t suppose ya could double-check?”

 

“Oh, we did.” The Commander scoffed lightly. “Believe me, we _wanted_ to give you the benefit of the doubt here. We turned New Mexico upside-down looking for Teufort, or Dustbowl, or Gravelpit, or The Thunder Mountains, or any of those places you mentioned, but they’re just not there. As far as we can tell, they don’t exist.”

 

“Wrrl, yrrw crrnt hrrff brrn lrrkrrng frrr mrrr thrrn trrn mrrnrrtsh!” the Pyro interjected.

“Hey, Pyro’s right!” Sniper agreed. “We were only walkin’ fer that long! If they really don’t exist, ya’d never a’ heard the names before, roight? So ya can’t a’ been lookin’ for ‘em much longer n’ that!”

 

“Alright, alright. Fair point,” the Commander said, placing an indignant hand on his hip. “However, we also searched international census information. The results of that investigation were quite interesting, too. Let me give you a list of names of people who do not exist. Barnabus Hale. Bilious Hale. Saxton Hale. Radigan Conagher. Zepheniah Mann, Redmond Mann, Blutarch Mann, Gray Mann, Silas Mann, Olivia Mann, do I need to go on?”

 

“Okay, I’m no longer convinced zhat ve’re going to get along,” the Medic observed, leaning back slightly.

 

“Radigan Conagher was my grandfather...” the Engineer whimpered.

 

“Baby man is lying! You cannot check the census of several countries in only ten minutes!” the Heavy protested.

 

“Ah, perhaps that’s true,” the Commander replied. “But let’s talk about something else I’ve never heard of: these corporations you mentioned. Those huge, bloated conglomerates you spoke of, Reliable Excavation and Demolition and Builders’ League United... they don’t seem to exist either. And more to the point, how about Mann Co.? Mann Co., according to you, is a multinational -- no, _omninational_ munitions and hat manufacturer, which seemed... oddly specific, but whatever. You can keep repeating ‘You didn’t have time to check’ all you want, and maybe it’s even true, but I _know_ for a _fact_ that Mann Co. does not exist. XCOM represents the very _pinnacle_ of human scientific achievement, and if there was a munitions corporation anywhere on _Earth_ that sold cloaking devices and short-range teleporters, XCOM would know about it!”

 

“Holy crap!” the Scout blurted out, his voice cracking in a way he would later vehemently deny. “It’s gotta be Merasmus! Dat freakin’ wizard shoved us inna’ da Twilight Zone!”

 

“Oh, the Twilight Zone! How appropriate!” the Commander laughed, shaking his head. “That reminds me, there are a few things that were wrong that I didn’t even _need_ to check! One! Magic does not actually exist! Two! Australia is not the technological capital of the world! And three! It is not 1972, as you all repeatedly claimed it to be, but rather 2015!”

 

As one, all of the mercenaries reared back in their seats and gasped, looks of horror on their faces. **“2015?!”**

 

“2015!” the Commander repeated. Suddenly, he knelt down, dropped his tablet a couple of inches, and quickly kicked it away. “So!” he continued, emphatically clapping his hands. “Based on the fact that you have gotten so! Much! Wrong --” He slammed the back of hand into his waiting palm to emphasize each word. “-- about the culture, geopolitical balance, geography and technological level of the planet Earth, not to mention the fact that you broke into XCOM Headquarters by literally _teleporting inside..._ and the thing with the skeletons, whatever that was... I am forced to conclude that you are _not,_ in fact, who you say you are! And who are you, then? Simple...” The Commander suddenly swung his arm out and pointed an accusatory finger at the assembled prisoners. _“You’re alien spies!”_

 

“Whoa... what?” the Engineer asked, blinking behind his goggles. “That was a... darn big leap there, Commander Compton.”

 

“The Commander will do nicely,” the Commander snarled. “And no, it isn’t. Who else could’ve pulled off that fancy entrance, and who else could’ve gotten that much wrong about this planet?”

 

“Maybe,” the Heavy grunted. “How did you think of that?”

 

The Commander scoffed. “What’d you think XCOM stood for, Xylophone Constructing Oversight Marines? No! We’re Extraterrestrial Combat! We are humanity’s first, last, best and only line of defense against the ongoing alien invasion, and the nine of _you_ have just blundered right past it!”

 

The Lady in Red let out a soft chuckle and slung her shotgun over her shoulder. “Eight, Commander.”

 

“Ah... yes, Sergeant Gallagher. Fair point. Eight of you.”

 

“Oh, boy,” the Scout groaned. “Where’s a crazy British guy wit’ bottomless pockets when ya need one...”

 

“Are we prisoners of war?” the Soldier asked.

 

The Commander lowered his head and grinned, his glasses flashing climactically in the dim light. “Absolutely.”

 

“You expect us t’ talk, Oz-finger?” the Sniper asked.

 

“Of course not,” the Commander shot back. “All we need is blood samples. You don’t have a problem with that, do you? A little blood? You’re either filthy aliens or bloodthirsty mercenaries, so I’m sure you’re used to spilling it.”

 

“Blood? Thass all?” the Demoman asked, rolling his good eye. “Well, ye dinnae hafta tie us up if thass all ye wanted, Commander.”

 

“It’s not that simple. It never is. Don’t you know there’s a war on?” The Commander crossed his arms behind his back and began to slowly pace back and forth in front of the mercenaries. “You see, gentlemen, once we have your blood, we’re going to have a team of our best scientific minds analyzing it. Thoroughly. And if we find a single fraction of your genome to indicate that you’re not fully, one hundred percent, pure-blooded human, one little A, C, G or T out of place, well... just a moment...”

 

The Commander stood stock still, lifted his hand and placed it gently behind his ear, staring up at the ceiling. He hesitated for just a few moments, allowing a mechanical and saturated silence to wash over the room. And then, suddenly, a loud tone came on over the base’s loudspeakers, and a female, heavily synthesized voice began to speak. “Alien Containment Facility online.”

 

“And not a second too soon! God, I love it when a plan comes together,” the Commander observed, chuckling. “Now then, I’m sure the good doctors will appreciate an excuse to boot the Facility up. They explained how it works in the proposal, you know. It’s... messy. There are probes involved. And I’m not entirely sure the team knows how to use them yet. They could all use a little dry run before they get to the real POWs.”

 

“Holy crap, he _is_ Australiumfinger!” the Scout blurted out.

 

“Ya mean Goldfinger, right, kiddo?” Sergeant Gallagher retorted. “Wha’ the piss is Australium?”

 

“You do not scare me, maggot!” the Soldier bellowed. “Work on it!”

 

“I don’t scare you?” The Commander suddenly threw his head back and laughed. “Well, Soldier... if that’s your real name... if I don’t scare you, just wait until you meet Dr. Vahlen.”

 


	4. Cryptic Sword

The Commander blinked, straightened his spine and cleared his throat. “Speaking of which...” He pinched his earpiece again and turned away from the captives. “Dr. Shen, Dr. Vahlen? The room’s been clear for a while now. What’s keeping you two?”

 

As if on cue, the doors of the lab slid open. The first person to enter was a young-ish woman with brown hair and a plain, vaguely European face. She wore some kind of lab coat with green stripes down the arms over a green turtleneck with XCOM’s logo plastered across the top. She’d clearly spent more time maintaining her body than her mind, not that her body had suffered terribly for it. She stepped into the room, a cart full of medical equipment in front of her, and gave a curt nod to the Commander. “I take it these are them?” she asked succinctly.

 

“Yes, Dr. Vahlen,” the Commander replied, glancing quickly in her direction. He hesitated a moment, then furrowed his brow. “You came alone?”

 

“Yes.” Dr. Vahlen stopped in her tracks and began looking over her equipment, plucking a disconcertingly large syringe off and brushing a bit of dust off. “I didn’t want to let the main science team fret about XCOM’s security for something as trivial as a few blood samples.”

 

The Commander tilted his head to the side and squinted in Dr. Vahlen’s direction. “So you’re... just going to collect them yourself? I thought you were a geneticist.”

 

“I am... but as you may recall, the science team has been working in a wide variety of fields over the course of the past month. You’d be surprised by what some of us have picked up on.” Dr. Vahlen chuckled softly, set the syringe back down and glanced up at the men in front of her. “Besides... this is of personal interest to me. You claimed these men teleported into the base. I’m just as invested in figuring out how they did it as you are.”

 

“Of course.” The Commander nodded. “We are agreed that it’s not actually magic, though, right?”

 

Dr. Vahlen cleared her throat, the smile fading quickly from her face. “Well, normally, I’m loathe to reject ideas out of hand, but...” She paused and glanced over at the assembled mercenaries. “...yes, I believe I’ll make an exception in this case.”

 

“Excellent. You can keep your job.” The Commander chuckled softly, then shook his head. “Uh, th-that was a joke. We all value your contributions to the team, Doctor. Anyway...” He clapped his hands and cleared his throat. “Now that the gang’s all here, let’s get down to business. Song, Chun, Rho, Lady in Red?”

 

The Lady in Red and her retinue of guards snapped to attention. “Yes, sir?”

 

The Commander lifted his hand and casually pointed towards the Pyro. “Converge on the one in the mask. We’re starting with him. If he tries anything, initiate arcing protocol.”

 

The Lady in Red put her shotgun away, reached down to her hip and pulled out a pistol-looking, state-of-the-art glorified taser. “Got it. Movin’.” She quickly set off towards the Pyro, but slowed to a stop once she realized that no one is following her. She slowly turned around, glaring back at the three soldiers in blue. “...You lot dunno wha’ arcin’ protocol is, do ya?” The men slowly shook their heads, and the Lady sighed. “Bloody IS... Okay. Arcin’ protocol means the boss wants this one alive. Take positions around Pyro over ‘ere, pistols out. If ‘e tries anything, give ‘im a warning shot t’... Iunno, somewhere ‘e won’t miss. The foot, the knee, the arms... jus’ stay away from the vital bits. Once ya’ve hobbled ‘im, tha’s where I come in. Jus’ try no’ t’ kill ‘im, yeah?” The three men nodded and mumbled their assent, switched their weapons out, and followed after the Lady.

 

“Uh... whoa, wait a minute.” The Engineer began to fidget softly in his seat, a nervous grin coming to his face. “Why’re y’all gatherin’ ‘round the Pyro here?”

 

“We need blood samples from all of you, to make sure you’re human,” the Commander sneered. “Why _wouldn’t_ we start with the man in the concealing jumpsuit and gas mask? He could be anything under there. He could be a giant blob of living silicone for all we know.”

 

The Lady in Red looked up, eyebrow raised. “Ah... if ‘e is a giant blob o’ livin’ silicone, the Arc Thrower’s prolly not gonna work.”

 

The Commander blinked and leaned back. “...Are you sure? Silicone conducts electricity. I mean, I... think it does... Don’t they use it to make microchips or something?”

 

“I think so, sir. But... Iunno the first thing about computers.” The Lady blinked. “...Well, I mean... no’ abou’ how they work, anyway.”

 

“Well... huh.” The Commander shrugged. “Dr. Vahlen, you’ve studied xenobiology. What’s your professional opinion?”

 

“I’ve never encountered a giant blob of living silicone, Commander,” Dr. Vahlen responded. “Your guess is as good as mine.”

 

“The Pyro is not a giant blob a’ livin’ silicone!” the Engineer cut in.

 

“Well, I suppose the burden of proof rests with him, then, doesn’t it?” the Commander shot back.

 

The Engineer suddenly leaned back. “...Whoa, whoa. What? Yer... Yer not gonna...”

 

“Rrnjrry?” the Pyro interrupted, a quaver making its way through the filter of its gas mask. “Thrrr nrrt grrnrr trryk mrry mrrshk rrff, rrr thrry?”

 

“No, nonono!” the Engineer said quickly. “A’ course not. She’s not gonna... The scary lady’s not gonna take yer mask off. Ain’t that right, Sergeant Gallagher?”

 

“Well, we gotta get the blood from somewhere,” Sergeant Gallagher replied, leaning on the Pyro’s broad shoulder. “We either take ‘is mask off an’ draw it from ‘is neck, or we take ‘is suit off an’ draw it from ‘is arm. An’ we’d hafta get ‘im outta tha’ chair t’ get ‘is suit off, so... yeah, we’re prolly gonna take off the mask.”

 

The Pyro whimpered and shrunk down away from the Sergeant’s hand.

 

“Uh... oh, boy,” the Engineer groaned. “P-Please don’t. Please don’t take the mask off. Fellas, back me up ‘ere...”

 

“He’s right, you know. Zhat’d be a very bad idea,” the Medic put in.

 

“And it would be hard,” the Heavy pointed out. “Mask is very hard to take off. I do not think Lady is strong enough.”

 

“Hahah! You wanna bet on it, fatarse?” Gallagher reached down and gripped the rubber at the base of the Pyro’s neck. “My body’s a state o’ the art military investment. Ya see this?” She pointed to a gleaming silver implant built into her bulging bicep -- which, oddly, no one had apparently noticed before. “This is a genetic regulator. I floated in one o’ those bloody tanks behind ya fer three straight days. An’ guess what? I’m not really human any more. I’m better. I can shrug off plasma fire like the X-rays’re throwin’ rocks at me. Stab me, shoot me, burn me alive -- don’ matter. I’ll be on my feet again in a few minutes. I can jump off the roof of a buildin’, fall two stories, land on one knee an’ keep runnin’. When all this is over, I’ll ‘ave the skills necessary t’ become a damn superhero. I think I know how t’ take off a gas mask.”

 

“Wait, you have a hot chick who’s also superhuman as yer sidekick?” the Scout asked. “...Seriously. Lost Bond villain over ‘ere.”

 

The Pyro, meanwhile, let out a strained whimper and began tugging away from Gallagher’s hand. “Plrrysh, shtrrp! Rrll drry! Rrnjrry, hrrlp mrry!”

 

“Commander...” the Engineer said, swallowing heavily. “Look, I-I oughta warn ya now, yer... ya really shouldn’t take ‘is mask off.”

 

“And why is that, Engineer?” The Commander crossed his arms. “Is he, or is he not, a giant blob of living silicon? Hm? Some kind of sentient protoplasm from some unexplored ocean floor, perhaps?  Or maybe he’s some kind of horrific human-slash-alien hybrid? ...Uh, wait, I meant...” He cleared his throat, glancing up at the Lady in Red with a cringe on his face. “No offense, Sergeant.”

 

“None... taken, sir,” she grunted. “Wow, this thing’s really stuck on ‘ere.”

 

“...N-No. No, Commander, that’s dumb.” The Engineer cleared his throat and looked the Commander right in the eyes. “Look, it’s nothin’ that... imaginative, okay? The Pyro wears the suit an’ mask ‘cuz he’s catastrophically immunocompromised.”

 

The room fell silent after that. Eventually, it was the Lady in Red who broke it. “...Wha’, ya mean... he’s go’ AIDS, or somethin’?”

 

The mercenaries all donned confused expressions at that -- except the Pyro, for obvious reasons -- and glanced back at the Lady. “Vhat’s AIDS?” the Medic asked.

 

“...Oh, right. Yer from 1972. I forgot.” Gallagher chuckled. “Wha’, were they still callin’ i’ GRID back then?”

 

“...Uh... those stand fer somethin’, right?” The Engineer furrowed his brow. “...GRID... that’s somethin’ somethin’ immune deficiency, probably...” He quickly shook his head. “That’s not the point.”

 

“What is the point?” the Commander asked.

 

“Och, ‘ere we go,” the Demoman groaned. “He loooves tellin’ this story...”

 

The Engineer inhaled deeply. “The point is, when the Pyro was young, he had... uh, a little accident. His momma never really taught ‘im not t’ play with matches, and, uh... he burned himself. An’ he was always a little weak in the white cell count, but... well, when he got burned, it got worse. So his folks bought ‘im a hermetically sealed, fireproof suit with a built-in oxygen filter, an’ he’s never taken it off. Because, t’ be clear, if he ever _does_ take it off, the contaminants in the air will overwhelm his crippled immune system an’ cause an infection in his horrifically scarred skin an’ he will die. He will die a slow, lingering death. An’ his blood will be on your hands.” The Engineer turned his head to face the Lady in Red and smiled warmly at her. “You don’t want that on your conscience, now do ya, Sergeant?”

 

The Lady rolled her eyes. “Iunno, greaser. I’ve got plenty a’ blood on my hands already. Most of it’s yellow, o’ course. Y’know, like yours. But a good chunk of it’s red. I was there when Operation Dyin’ Spark went tits-up, after all...” Her cocky grin suddenly faded. She gave a theatrical swoon, covered her eyes and lifted her free hand up as if to block an invisible spotlight. “...Some nights... I can still smell the bodies burnin’ in the streets...”

 

The Commander hunched over slightly, his cocky glare fading. “...Um... S-Sergeant, Operation Dying Spark is still kind of a sore subject for me.”

 

“Wha’, I’m no’ allowed t’ make jokes?” The Lady lowered her hand and crossed her arms, waggling her eyebrows at the Commander. “Per’aps pokin’ fun is a natural part o’ my emotional healin’ process. Didja think o’ that, ya dick’ead? I oughta drag yer sorry arse t’ sensitivity training!”

 

“I...” The Commander cleared his throat and donned a smile that, despite his best efforts, still looked a little nervous. “I realize you’re joking, Sergeant, and I appreciate that. However, that operation was only 134 hours ago. It’s still a little soon for me. I’d really appreciate it if you just... waited a while.”

 

The Lady in Red crossed her arms. “Yer no fun, Commander.”

 

“Th-There’ll be time for that later,” the Commander shot back. He cleared his throat and glanced back down at the Engineer. “Anyway. I am not entirely convinced that your masked friend is not a giant blob of living silicone... but nonetheless, he is entitled to his day in court. We _need_ those blood samples, Engineer. What would you suggest?”

 

“Why does Engineer get to be in charge?” the Soldier asked, slumping down and indignantly sticking out his lower lip.

 

“Las’ time you were in charge, i’ got us ‘ere,” the Demoman pointed out. “You lost yer bein’ in charge privileges.”

 

The Soldier lowered his head and slumped down even further. “Awww...”

 

“Thanks, Demo,” the Engineer interjected with a smile. “Anyway... you want the blood samples, that’s fine. We wanna cooperate. I mean, hell, Spy’s dead. What other choice do we have? But no, we can’t just go strippin’ the Pyro. ‘Cause he’ll die. So, uh... I’m jus’ spitballin’ here... you boys got a cleanroom?”

 

The Commander arched an eyebrow. “...We do, in fact. There’s a cleanroom in the main research lab. We use it primarily to decontaminate the alien cadavers XCOM recovers from the field.”

 

Dr. Vahlen pursed her lips and cleared her throat faintly. “Speaking of which, Commander... Have you considered my proposal?”

 

“Oh, uh, yes. Yes, of course I have.” The Commander turned to face Dr. Vahlen and nodded. “Naturally. We will discuss that soon. Not in front of the prisoners, obviously, but yes. Um... remind me once we’re done here, alright?”

 

“Of course. Thank you, Commander.”

 

“You’re welcome, Doctor. Anyway. Engineer.” The Commander took a couple of steps backwards, towards the wall of the lab. “We can take the Pyro out of his seat and take him to the cleanroom, but--”

 

The Lady in Red scoffed and arched an eyebrow at the Commander. “Wha’, after ya went t’ all tha’ trouble t’ get ‘im in the chair?”

 

“--but,” the Commander continued, “I need a guarantee that he won’t pull any tricks. I guess I’m still a little jumpy after the thing with the skeletons. Do I have your cooperation on this, Pyro?”

 

“Yrrw hrrff rr frrnrry mrrshtrrsh, Jrrnrrrrl Jrrmprryshnrryk,” the Pyro responded.

 

The Commander leaned back and arched an eyebrow at the Pyro. “...Um... what’d he say?”

 

“He said he likes your mustache,” the Engineer explained.

 

The Commander hesitated, leaned back and draped his hand over his mouth. “...I... I clearly don’t have a mustache,” he mumbled.

 

“I can see that, sir,” the Engineer agreed. “Ya’ll hafta forgive Pyro. He’s just kinda... loopy right now, is all.”

 

The Scout snorted and let out an uncharacteristically nervous chuckle. “Yeah, loopy’s one word for it.”

 

The Sniper arched an eyebrow and craned his neck to look back at the Engineer. “Whaddaya mean, roight now? Is he ever not loopy?”

 

“Ja... you vouldn’t be questioning my competence, vould you?” the Medic added.

 

“Okay, back on topic, people,” the Commander groaned, burying his face in his hand. “Is the Pyro armed or isn’t he?”

 

“He is,” the Engineer replied, “an’ so am I. We’re all armed, Gene--” He shook his head. “--I mean, Commander. But... if we give ya our weapons, ya’ll take us to the cleanroom, right?”

 

“I’ll take Pyro to the cleanroom,” the Commander responded. “The rest of you are going to the Alien Containment Facility.”

 

“Whoa whoa whoa -- I gotta go with the Pyro,” the Engineer shot back. “He might freak out -- an’ considerin’ that yer gonna be pokin’ ‘im with sharp objects, well... the short version is, I’m gonna need t’ be there t’ calm ‘im down. He’ll listen a’ me.”

 

“Fine... fine,” the Commander groaned. “Song, Chun, Rho, Lady in Red -- disarm the Engineer. Weapons ready. If he tries anything, shoot him.”

 

“Yes, sir,” the men responded, training their weapons on the Engineer.

 

“Okay...” The Commander reached down, picked up his tablet and tapped the screen. The Engineer’s restraints slammed back into his chair and he quickly stood up. The Commander turned his back on the mercenaries at that point and groaned again. “...Okay. Dr. Vahlen, while they’re doing that, could you start collecting those blood samples?”

 

“Yes, Commander,” Dr. Vahlen responded, nodding curtly and stepping forward.

 

“Oh, uh... Pyro’s not an option, so start with Spy down there,” the Commander added, gesturing to the slowly cooling corpse of the Spy. “He didn’t explode in a cloud of green smoke, so that’s something. But I still want a full genetic workup. He’s getting his day in court, even if he didn’t live to see it.”

 

Dr. Vahlen knelt down, syringe held between her fingers, and prepared to draw the appropriate sample... when she suddenly stopped. She tilted her head to the side, gently placed two fingers on the base of the Spy’s neck and widened her eyes. “This isn’t a human corpse,” she reported.

 

“I’m not surprised,” the Commander scoffed. “All the more reason for you to get that sample, Doctor. If this is some kind of advanced infiltrator, I want to know everything there is to know about--”

 

“Commander,” Dr. Vahlen said, cutting him off, “this is a wax sculpture.”

 

The Engineer, who had produced a monkey wrench as big as his torso from absolutely nowhere and was currently handing it to a very confused Sergeant Gallagher, glanced over at the Spy’s alleged corpse and cringed.

 

The Commander eventually closed his mouth, wiped the stupefied expression off his face and stared intently down at Dr. Vahlen. “...It’s what?”

 

“It’s a wax sculture,” Dr. Vahlen repeated.

 

“...It’s a wax...” The Commander’s spindly legs wobbled beneath him. “Oh God. Are you serious? It’s a wa-- I already fell off the wagon once today...”

 

“Oi, how do ya think I feel?” the Lady in Red interjected, balancing the Engineer’s wrench over her shoulder. “There’s literally nowhere he coulda’ been keepin’ this thing.”

 

“Gallagher, there’s no time for--” The Commander looked up and, as soon as he saw the wrench, stopped in his tracks. He looked between the Lady in Red, the wrench, the Engineer for a few moments, then shook his head. “Uh, that’s actually a very valid concern. But... one thing at a time, alright?”

 

“I can explain where I got these, y’know,” the Engineer offered, producing a sleek, brown, futuristic-looking shotgun from the same place he’d got his wrench.

 

“Later!” the Commander snapped. “Dr. Vahlen, uh... what’s your professional opinion here?”

 

“I... have no idea,” Dr. Vahlen answered, placing her hand on her forehead. “If... Y-You shot him, right?”

 

“Several times,” the Lady in Red pointed out.

 

“...A-Actually, uh...” One of the soldiers in blue chuckled softly and glanced down at his weapon. “...I-I think I was a little wide, sir.”

 

“Y-Yeah... so was I,” added another.

 

The third one cringed awkwardly. “I... didn’t want to say anything, but...”

 

The Lady in Red glanced back at the three of them and groaned. “Awww... bloody IS. Well, once then, I guess. But I hit ‘im with a shotgun a’ close range. He should be dead.”

 

“Wait, you did?” the Engineer asked, tilting his head and glancing over at Gallagher. “But... But you’re...”

 

Gallagher hefted the wrench off her shoulder and placed the head in the palm of her hand. “Before ya finish tha’ sentence, greaser, keep in mind I’m a genetically engineered supersoldier an’ I’ve got yer crazy caveman wrench.”

 

“...w-wearin’ red,” the Engineer finished.

 

Gallagher arched an eyebrow at the shorter man. “...What?”

 

The Commander clapped his hand twice, gnawing gently on his lower lip. “Can we stay on topic here, please?” He let out a shaky sigh, staring blankly down at the Spy’s alleged corpse. “You shot him with a shotgun... He should be dead, or at least bleeding out... and instead he’s a wax sculpture! What the hell is going on?!”

 

“A’right, calm yer tits, sir,” the Lady in Red snapped. She stepped out from behind her chair, snatched the Engineer’s shotgun out of his gloved hand and tossed it to one of the Internal Security grunts. “We’ve got a cooperative man ‘ere. He might be able t’ explain the situation. An’ if he doesn’t,” she added, scowling intensely at him, “I’ve got a big damn wrench t’ hit ‘im with.”

 

“Y-You can’t hit him until we prove he’s not human,” the Commander whimpered.

 

“The wax sculpture isn’t proof enough?”

 

The Commander opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. “...Touché.”

 

“You can’t hurt me with that,” the Engineer pointed out. “An’ you shouldn’t a’ been able t’ hurt Spy! If you’re wearin’ red, an’ you’re the one who shot ‘im, the device never shoulda’ triggered!”

 

At once, the assembled mercenaries whipped their heads around and began a haphazard chorus of violent shushing -- all but the Soldier, who bellowed “JUDAS! I am not getting probed because of you!” and started trying to gnaw his own hand off at the wrist.

 

Dr. Vahlen’s face went blank, and she slowly lifted her head to face the Engineer. “...Device?” she repeated. “What device?”

 

“Uh, nothin’! Nothin’! I didn’t say anything!” the Engineer blurted out, frantically waving his hands in front of his face. “Hey, I wanna cooperate, okay? We’re human, all of us! Nobody wants t’ get probed here!”

 

“Commander, wha’ is goin’ on?” asked the Lady in Red, looking more angry than nervous.

  
And it was at that point that the Commander realized what was going on. His knees wobbled again, he took a couple of involuntary steps backwards, and in a weak voice, he slowly murmured to no one in particular: “...cloaking devices and teleporters...”


	5. Spectral Thorn

Dr. Shen, by all accounts, was not scary. He was an elderly man of unspecified Asian descent -- pushing sixty, balding, and maybe a little overweight -- which made him look unassuming in essentially every conceivable way. He looked more like someone’s kindly grandfather than one of humanity’s greatest living minds, which made him one of the least physically intimidating people on XCOM’s payroll, second only to the Commander himself. But tonight, as the Doctor made the long walk between the Engineering and Research wings, something was different. His spine was unnaturally straight, his arms were crossed behind his back, and his typical resting pleasantness was all but completely absent from his face. He carried himself with an uncharacteristic amount of purpose and confidence, which all seemed quite disconcerting to those who’d seen him before.

As the Doctor slowly approached the top of the long metal staircase connecting the two labs, the base intercom let out a soft chime. “Security Status: Yellow. Security Status: Yellow,” recited the calm, synthesized female voice of the base’s AI. “Alert: Lockdown is now in effect. This is not a drill.” Dr. Shen rolled his neck, cracked his knuckles behind his back and donned a decidedly non-kindly smirk.

The doctor entered the main research labs of XCOM. He didn’t hesitate, he just walked right in through the front door like he owned the place. In stark contrast to the harsh yellow of the Genetics Lab, the main research labs were mostly a cool blue. There were several guards in eggshell-blue body armor milling about the room, holding assault rifles and looking bored. Their presence didn’t seem to interfere with the normal function of the lab -- namely, serving as a gathering point for people in lab coats. A handful of scientists of varying nationalities were milling about long tables, fiddling with computer terminals, and generally looking busy. Of more immediate concern, however, was the large, glass-walled chamber off to the right. The Commander, the Engineer and Dr. Vahlen were all crowded around it, with various stages of disgust on their faces, and inside the chamber were two men in concealing rubber suits. Dr. Shen nodded, having taken in the situation carefully, and approached the three observers from behind. “Have I missed anything?” he asked.

The Commander jumped about a foot in the air and whipped around. “Oh, I... didn’t hear you come in,” he remarked, placing his hand on his chest. “No, we were just... wrapping up here. Nice of you to join us, Dr. Shen.”

“Dr. Shen? Head of Engineerin’, Dr. Shen?” the Engineer asked, a smile coming quickly to his face as he turned around. “Well, I’ll be damned! Folks call me the Engineer. I’ve been lookin’ for...” He stopped mid-sentence, his smile fading quickly. “...lookin’ forward t’ meetin’ ya.”

“Yes, I imagine you would have been,” Dr. Shen responded, a vague half-smile coming to his lips. “You’ve clearly been busy here.”

“We have,” the Commander affirmed with a nod. “And we... still are, I suppose. Dr. Gollop?” The Commander slipped a glass vial between his fingers and waved one of the men in lab coats over to him. “I need you to run this sample down to the Gene Lab. Hikari, Minh!” Two guards in bright blue quickly marched over to the Commander. “Gollop’s your VIP. No, not him, this Gollop. Make sure the doctor gets to the Gene Lab and back safely. If a single hair on his head gets hurt, I’ll have you both court-martialed!” Naturally, the Commander’s voice cracked and shot upwards on ‘court.’ He cleared his throat loudly and then continued. “Am I clear?”

“Yes, sir,” said the first guard, nodding.

The second guard cleared his throat. “Uh, one question, sir... Are Seeker protocols still active?”

“Affirmative. They’re active until we go off Yellow,” the Commander replied, nodding. “You two are familiar with the protocols, right?” The two soldiers nodded. “Good. Then you have your orders. Move out!” And with that, the three of them headed off. “And come straight back here when you’re done!” Naturally, as he shouted at his agents’ backs, his voice cracked again.

Dr. Shen glanced over his shoulder at the retreating retinue of guards. “Whose blood was that, sir?”

“The Pyro’s. Uh, in there,” the Commander responded, gesturing to the cleanroom. “We had to, uh...” The Commander hesitated a moment, then hunched over and sighed weakly. “...a-actually, you know what, I could use a moment. That was...” He shuddered faintly, placing his hand gently on his heart. “I don’t even know what to say to that.”

“Agreed,” Dr. Vahlen remarked, slowly shaking her head and letting out a shuddering sigh. “I... don’t know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that.”

“I’ve seen worse,” the Commander said assuredly. He then hesitated for a moment, glancing briefly up at the ceiling. “...Well, actually, he was still alive, so... no, I guess I haven’t seen worse.”

“How is he even able to function?” Dr. Vahlen wondered aloud.

“He’s on painkillers, Doc,” the Engineer replied.

Dr. Vahlen raised an eyebrow in the Engineer’s direction. “...Painkillers?” she repeated.

“He’s on a lotta’ painkillers, Doc.”

“...And that... works?”

“He’s on _really_ a lotta’ painkillers, Doc.”

Dr. Shen arched an eyebrow at the Commander. “...What just happened, sir?” he asked.

“Well, we had to collect a blood sample to analyze, so we could make sure he was human... and, uh...” The Commander shuddered. “Let’s just say, we’ll have to wait on the test to know for sure.”

“Rrrrrrrw...” the Pyro moaned, hanging its head. “Thrrt wrrsh mrryn...”

“Commander! You hurt ‘is feelings!” the Engineer blurted out, shooting him a disappointed look. “It’s okay, Pyro, he didn’t mean it...”

“I... you’re right, I’m sorry,” the Commander added, shuddering. “But seriously, I think he might be suffering from cardiomegaly. Have you had that looked at?” A passing scientist stopped in his tracks and shot the Commander an odd look. “...What? I own a word of the day calendar, Dr. Zvezda. It doesn’t change the fact that Pyro’s heart is larger than his head.”

“Oh, that’s normal, Commander,” the Engineer assured him. “It’s a stitch job. Medic swapped out his old heart for that one a long time ago.”

“...Why?”

“So he could have an Uber Implant, naturally.” Engineer let out a soft chuckle and rolled his eyes, not that the Commander could tell. “Y’know, it’s a long story...”

The Commander crossed his arms. “Give me the short version.”

The Engineer hesitated, then took a deep breath. “...Well, in that case, the Medic cut out our hearts -- not just Pyro’s, all of ours -- replaced ‘em with mega-baboons’ hearts, then slapped a cybernetic implant on ‘em that can make us invincible with the right equipment.”

“...I... I see.” The Commander blinked, then turned towards Dr. Shen. “Um... Dr. Shen, you’ve studied cybernetics. What’s your professional opinion?”

Dr. Shen blinked and pursed his lips. “My professional opinion, Commander, is that it seems a little reckless.”

The Commander blinked and tilted his head backwards. “...A little reckless?” he repeated.

“Yes, sir,” Dr. Shen agreed, nodding. “That much electricity flowing through a vital organ seems risky to me, mega-baboon notwithstanding.”

“...Really?” the Commander asked. “Because it seems unsafe to me. I mean, granted, I’m not a scientist, but--”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Commander,” Dr. Shen assured him, breaking eye contact. “I’m... sure it’s fine.”

The Commander hesitated a moment, then nodded. “Okay. I’ll take that under advisement.” The room descended into an awkward silence after that. Eventually, the Commander coughed and crossed his arms. “Changing the subject... Where were you earlier, Doctor? I asked you to head down to the Genetics Lab a while ago, and you never showed up. I realize it’s not exactly your department, but...”

Dr. Shen shook his head and cleared his throat. “I apologize for that, Commander. Something came up. There was a catastrophic electrical disturbance in the Foundry that required my immediate attention.”

“Okay, fair enough.” The Commander sighed, then suddenly looked up. “We’re not... behind schedule on construction, are we?”

Dr. Shen pursed his lips and cleared his throat. “...There’s a little bad news on that front, I’m afraid.”

“Ohhh, God. That’s just what we need right now...” The Commander let out a soft whimper and looked down at his feet. “Alright. Give it to me straight. How bad is it?”

“We may be a few hours behind schedule,” Dr. Shen replied. “As soon as we have a more specific figure, you’ll be the third to know.”

Dr. Vahlen arched an eyebrow at Dr. Shen. “Third?” she repeated.

“Well, the men who make the estimate will be the first to know,” Dr. Shen explained, “followed by myself. The Commander will, naturally, be the first person I inform, making him the third to know.”

The Commander blinked. “...Couldn’t I just check the Project Queue remotely once you have a damage assessment?”

Dr. Shen also blinked. “Well, yes, of course you could, Commander. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that.”

“Okay, good.” The Commander suddenly snapped his fingers. “Oh, that reminds me. Speaking of the Foundry, next time you’re down there, could you pass on my thanks to the team for building those handcuff armchairs? And while you’re on the subject... inform Dr. Conagher that he owes me twenty euro.”

The Engineer’s head shot up. “Doctor who?”

“I’ll make a note of it,” Dr. Shen replied.

“Excellent. In the meantime,” the Commander continued, “shouldn’t you be getting back to Engineering, Dr. Shen? We’re on Status Yellow, and the security team that’s assigned to protect you is in Engineering. I’m sure you’re aware of the protocols.”

“Of course I am, Commander,” Dr. Shen replied, not making a single move to leave. “But out of curiosity, sir... What’s going to happen to those two?”

“We’ll put them in the Alien Containment Facility until the tests come back,” the Commander explained. “Speaking of which... Chang! Miyamoto! Prakash! Abbot! I need you four on escort duty!”

“Yes sir!” four soldiers at once blurted out, quickly making their way across the room.

“Is all that really necessary, Commander?” Dr. Shen asked.

“Of course it is!” the Commander shot back. “These are highly dangerous men with access to some highly dangerous technology! We can’t have them just wandering around the base! In fact, we can’t have anybody wandering around the base. Dr. Shen, Dr. Vahlen, the two of you should get back to work.”

“Yes, Commander,” Dr. Vahlen said quickly, wandering swiftly off to fraternize with her kind.

“Of course, Commander. I’ll just be on my way,” said Dr. Shen, turning on his heel and stalking off.

The Commander took a long, deep breath. “Alright. Engineer, I’m leaving Pyro in your hands. I trust you won’t give us any trouble here?”

“No, sir,” the Engineer replied. “We’ll get down there just fine, I promise.”

“Thank you.” The Commander sighed heavily, then glanced up at the cleanroom. “Mr. Ashley, let the Pyro out of there?” The man in the yellow hazmat suit, who had been observing all of this silently up to this point, silently saluted the Commander and gripped the Pyro’s shoulder. “Okay...” The Commander nodded, then sighed heavily and glanced up at the four approaching soldiers. “Chang, Miyamoto, Prakash, Abbott? Could you four wait outside?”

“Yes, sir,” the four soldiers said at once, quickly heading towards the door.

“Right, then.” The Commander cleared his throat and glanced down at the Engineer.

“Is somethin’ wrong, Commander?” the Engineer asked.

“No, not at all,” the Commander said quickly. “I just wanted to tell you that I appreciate your cooperation.”

“Hey, what’ve we got t’ lose?” the Engineer replied, smiling. “We’re human, right? All you’ve gotta do is sequence our DNA, an’ you’ll see that this is all just a silly misunderstanding.”

The Commander sighed. “I certainly hope so, Engineer. I mean... human or not, you clearly have access to some remarkable technology. The teleportation and the cloaking devices are one thing, but the wax, the weapons from nowhere... not to mention the skeletons... I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He sighed again and shook his head. “XCOM may be the pinnacle of human scientific achievement, but honestly? If the nine of you really wanted to escape... I’m not sure we could contain you.”

“Aw, c’mon now, don’t sell yourself short.” The Engineer smiled and clapped the Commander on the back. “You’re the Commander of XCOM, right? Humanity’s first an’ last line a’ defense against the alien hordes? Like ya said earlier, they wouldn’t a’ put ya in charge a’ this operation if you weren’t one a’ the best tactical minds on the planet. Your tech might not be at Mann Co. gold star level, but I’m sure you could outsmart most of us.”

“Thank you, Engineer. That does make me feel a little better.” The Pyro emerged from the cleanroom at that point and sidled up next to the Engineer. The Commander cleared his throat and quickly looked away. “I just hope it doesn’t come to that. I mean, you people are... powerful... intelligent, to a degree, and I’m fairly certain at least one of you is deranged. God only knows what your colleagues could be getting up to in that Containment Facility right now...”


End file.
